


magnetic

by alongthewatchtower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Play, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:18:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis don't fuck anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	magnetic

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps a little bittersweet? 
> 
> Mentions of Harry/Niall, Harry/Nick, Harry/Jeff, Harry/others, Louis/Eleanor, Louis/Zayn.

Harry and Louis don’t fuck anymore.  
  
They don’t kiss, they don’t touch, they don’t have sex. There’s months between them now, a lack of shared experiences and the whole goddamn ocean Harry put between them because if they can’t be together how they want, they can’t be together at all.   
  
It was their decision - it was a bloody fucking _stupid_ decision, Louis knows, and the other lads haven’t been backwards about coming forwards and telling him so, either, but if he and Harry couldn’t be LouisandHarry, if they couldn’t be out and happy and building a life together, they decided not to be together at all. They’re not stupid, and they’re sure as fuck not as naive as they were when they started out. They both want to make a go of this, for however long One Direction lasts, and not being together will make it easier. It was -  _is_  - too hard, only being able to reach out and touch when they were alone, only being able to kiss behind closed doors, having to watch their fucking body language and every word that comes out of their mouths. The last one was particularly problematic for Louis, who’s made a living not having a brain-to-mouth filter.  
  
It doesn’t explain why Louis is here, in a hotel room that’s too hot by far, because Harry will take the muggy Australian heat over closed balcony doors every time, beer sweating in Louis’ hand as he looks at the TV - not watching, because there’s nothing that could hold his attention over the figure sprawled on the other couch.  
  
It doesn’t explain why Louis is here, watching the stretch of recently-bitten lips around the plastic head of a water bottle. Soft, and full, gorgeous and pink and inspiring the dirtiest of thoughts and the situation that’s currently developing in Louis’ trackies. Harry takes his mouth off the bottle, swipes a careless hand across his mouth, and his lips part instinctively after, a beautiful little almost-pout - and Louis knows, sees it even now, just how gorgeous that mouth looks around the head of his cock.  
  
That careless hand drops to Harry’s thigh, and Louis knows he’s not fooling either of them when he pretends not to watch the way long fingers rub at Harry’s inseam. Louis shifts in his seat, the awkward uncrossing of legs as his dick hardens in his pants. Neither of them says anything.  
  
The fuck of it all is that Harry loves him, and Louis loves him back. He’s going to spend his life with the gorgeous, infuriating little fucker he fell in love with when he was eighteen, is going to build a life and a family with Harry someday. Louis knows it in his bones, has never stopped loving Harry, never will.   
  
But for now, they love other people, too. Louis has El and is Zayn’s free pass. Harry has Jeff, and sometimes Grimshaw (fucking hipster twat), and it hasn’t escaped Louis’ attention that sometimes Niall ends up sporting a very familiar set of scratch marks down his pale back. It's a complicated mess of feelings that shouldn’t work but somehow does.  
  
He and Harry have, by mutual agreement, decided not to fuck anymore. Because if they can’t be together, in every way, all the time, then it’s too hard.  
  
Harry’s  palming himself through his jeans now, and the wide splay of his thighs is obscene, one big hand cupping the bulge in his jeans. He’s staring determinedly at the TV still, but his hips are making tiny little movements, aborted little jerks that betray how worked up he really is.  
  
“You gonna do something about that?” Louis asks, and his voice is jarring in the almost-silence of the room, abrupt and and out of place.  
  
Harry turns his head to look at Louis, cheek pressed against the back of the couch, head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat. “I don’t know,” he says, all faux-casual like Louis doesn’t know exactly how much he wants to get off, like Louis doesn’t know every inch of Harry's skin, the way his cheeks heat and his pupils blow out, making his stupidly gorgeous eyes look even bigger. “Should I?”  
  
Louis shrugs, and knows he’s fooling exactly _nobody._ “Whatever.”  
  
Harry’s jeans are so tight Louis can see the shift of muscle under denim as his thighs tense. “Might as well,” he says, and his voice is croaky now, and he’s cupping himself firmly with his right hand, the fingers of his left playing with the waistband of his jeans, tracing the bottom of one of those stupid bloody ferns.  
  
Louis’ own hands are flat on his thighs, fingers dread and determinedly _not_  clawing into his sweatpants . He flicks his gaze back to the TV, watches the end of a news bulletin, and the TV is on mute but he can see the accent on the ridiculous peppy Australian newscaster, narrating over highlights of the evening’s ceremony, a shot of Katy Perry, Louis and his boys on the red carpet, a cut away of Harry smiling kindly at someone with a microphone in his face -  
  
and _fuck_ , but Harry looked good tonight, but it’s nothing compared to what he looks like _now._  
  
Harry arches and wiggles his jeans down his hips, teasing little flashes of cock as he crosses one leg under his arse, blocking Louis’ view because he’s a bloody _tease_ , hiding any possible glimpse of his pretty hole as he brings his other leg up, rests a foot on the coffee table between them, wriggles his little butt as if the thousand-dollar couch is uncomfortable. He’s not looking at Louis, eyes firmly fixed on the television neither of them are really watching.  
  
There’s a mark on the skin where Harry’s little arse meets thigh - the spot that makes him mewl, where he shudders at the sucking application of a mouth to skin that will mark up nicely, purple-red, where the line of his pants will rub all day and make Harry feel, make him _remember._ Louis can taste that little strip of skin, salt against his tongue, and he has to stop himself from leaning in, from leaning closer. He realises with a rush of something he knows is jealousy that there’s teethmarks at the edge of that pretty little mark, and Louis can picture it in all too vivid colour - Harry bent over something, a mouth worrying at the skin of his arse, leaving a possessive spray of purple-red on Harry’s skin, fingerprints at Harry’s hips and teeth on his arse. Louis knows the mouth that made those marks, watched it whisper things into Harry’s ear just hours before on a red carpet, watched Niall throw back his head and laugh at something Harry said in response.  
  
Harry spreads his legs abruptly, moving the leg that’s been underneath him so he can slouch down on the sofa, so he can plant both feet on the coffee table, legs spread and obscene as he rubs with an idle hand at a nipple. There’s the sudden, visceral sound of Harry spitting into his other hand, before reaching down to wrap that hand around his cock. There’s something almost nonchalant about the way he’s on display, lewd and hedonistic but somehow completely impersonal.   
  
Someone could be watching him jack himself off, or he could just be indulging in a private wank in his locked hotel room - as far as Harry is concerned right now, he’s alone. He tosses his hair out of his eyes as he leans his head back against the couch, eyes closing as the hand toying with a nipple reaches down past his cock, palming his balls as two long fingers press lower, as they part Harry’s arse cheeks and Louis gets a good look at Harry’s arse for the first time tonight.  
  
Louis swallows, throat suddenly dry. There’s no pretending to look at the TV now, nothing more interesting a sight than the tap of two long fingers against the black silicone base of something Louis bought himself.  
  
Harry, the little _tart_ , has been walking around with his favourite  plug up his arse for fuck knows how long, is stretched and pink and gorgeous when he tugs it out just _slightly,_ long fingers wrapped around the flat base. Louis holds his breath, waits as Harry pauses, as the rim of his arse twitches around the stretch.  
  
Harry fucks it back into himself slightly, a twist and shove that makes his toes curl, makes him bite his lip. His jaw clenches as he repeats the motion, and Louis can breath again, can let the air whistle through his teeth as he exhales.  
  
Louis has a hand inside his sweats now, dick sticky and wet with pre-come as he jerks himself slowly. The sight before him is unfairly pretty, and Louis’ heart aches at the knowledge that other people have seen Harry like this. _His_  Harry, and for all that he knows Harry doesn’t love him any less just because he also has feelings for others, it makes Louis grit his teeth at the swell of possessiveness he feels.   
  
Louis walked in on Harry and the bloody hipster twat once, in a tiny sectioned-off dressing room in a venue just like any other. Walked in to find Harry on his knees, swallowing around another man’s dick, moaning shamelessly as Nick curled fingers into his hair because Harry is shameless in pursuit of his pleasure, it’s one of the things that Louis loves about him. Harry, sensual, gorgeous Harry, who loves the weight and the feel of a cock in his mouth, who has to be reminded not to go down too far or too fast, because deep throating isn’t exactly conducive to good vocals. Louis knows the marks Harry likes to leave behind, streaks of reddened skin from blunt nails, bruises from the tight grip of his thighs around someone’s waist, teethmarks because he likes to bite and sometimes he’s just so goddamn _loud_  he shuts himself up by licking and sucking at skin.  
  
Here and now, Harry’s jaw has gone slack, mouth open as he takes little hitching breaths, stomach muscles jumping as he uses the plug to toy with his rim, cock forgotten as he reaches up to take his hair in hand, long fingers wrapping around curly hair and _pulling_ , tugging until Harry’s bending his own head back, neck long and gorgeous as he struggles with himself, muscles tensing and flexing as he shoves the silicone back inside himself, pulls it back out just as fast.  
  
He’ll be really feeling it now, Louis knows, the rim of Harry’s arse will be hot and sore, and Harry’s whining now, stomach muscles tensing as he obviously clenches down, dragging the plug all the way out of himself before pushing it back in, pulling his hair harder with the other hand and clenching his teeth against the burn in his arse.  
  
“It’s not enough, is it?” Louis asks, and his voice is raw, words ground out as he tightens his hand around his dick. He’s close now, can feel his balls draw up tight against his body.  
  
Harry shakes his head, and he’s carefully not looking at Louis, but his eyes open wide and his face is pleading. There’s a pause, a moment of indecision, before Harry _growls_ , a low, frustrated noise, and pulls the plug out of himself with a dirty, delicious _pop,_ tossing it aside. His arse is gorgeous, clenching around nothing, but Harry doesn’t leave himself empty. Three long fingers thrust back in, and Harry’s other hand goes slack in his hair as his jaw drops open.   
  
Louis jacks himself faster, swiping his thumb over the almost-too-sensitive head of his dick, watching Harry’s fingers work in his own arse, watching the man across from him tremble, and Louis knows, could count down to what is about to happen -   
  
Harry shouts, flushed and gorgeous as he comes, cock spurting against his belly, untouched, nothing but the press of fingers as he works his prostate, drawing the orgasm out of him. Louis wants to never look away, but can’t stop the reflexive way his eyes close as he comes, silent except for a harsh exhale, wet mess spurting inside his trackies, forgotten beer still sweating away in Louis’ other hand.  
  
When he opens his eyes, Harry is looking back at him, meeting his gaze properly for the first time since he opened the door. He’s still spread obscenely, belly streaked with come, cock softening against his thigh, well-used arse clenching slowly around nothing, empty for the first time in hours. There’s no judgement on his face, just a soft smile as he watches Louis set down his beer on the coffee table. His gaze flicks to the muted television.  
  
Louis takes one last look at Harry, flushed and sated, sprawled on the couch, and turns away, toward the door and his own hotel room.  
  
Because until they can be together,  properly, _forever_ , they’re going to stay away from each other.  
  
At least, that’s what Louis tells himself. And he’ll tell himself again, tomorrow night, when he’s watching Harry tuck his softening dick back into his pants, still leaning against Louis’ hotel room door because Harry was so desperate to get off he didn’t make it any further into the room.  
  
They’re going to stay away from each other, Louis tells himself.  
  
He almost makes himself believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! leave a comment, or come say hi on [tumblr](http://downintinpanalley.tumblr.com/ask) :)


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